


Every Door

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: The Sundered Oath [1]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Gen, Old Vailia, Woedican Watcher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-18 09:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16115297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: Something about this conversation is off; she flattens herself against the wall, listening intently. And then she catches another familiar word, Queen, and her heart leaps. Not just any queen; one of Woedica’s titles. This is no mere business contract; this is something greater.(Intrigues disguised as business and politeness, a mysterious visitor and ancient secrets whispered behind closed doors - just another day in Old Vailia.)





	Every Door

**Author's Note:**

> (Beta by the fabulous Ranna; thanks, dear! :D)

The voices are quiet, but even, not secretive – just another business contract. Sabela would leave her spot behind one of the tapestries if not for the fact that her father is talking in Hylspeak. Which he does occasionally, when dealing with Aedyran merchants and messengers. She recognizes a few words: book, adra, late; nothing suspicious, nothing more shady than the usual intrigues of an average noble house of Old Vailia.

But something about this conversation is off; Sabela cannot quite determine what, and that intrigues her. She flattens herself against the wall, listening intently. Nothing but her father’s recognizable accent; their family might hail from Aedyr, but they left long ago, long enough to forget some details like proper intonation of an old dialect.

There is a moment of silence, and then the stranger speaks again, and suddenly Sabela understands what element does not fit the familiar picture. Unlike her father, the man is speaking without any traces of accent; proper Hylspeak, like she has heard maybe once or twice in her life. Hylspeak like he has no right to know it, being a short-lived folk.

And then she catches another familiar word, _Queen_ , and her heart leaps. Not just any queen; one of Woedica’s titles. Sabela takes a deep, cautious breath, trying to calm down. This is no mere business contract; this is something greater. Her father is not an overly devoted believer – but then again, if he was working for the glory of The Exiled Queen, what better cover than pretended indifference, than speaking prayers and blessings as if they were more of a family custom than true expressions of faith?

Noiselessly sneaking out of her hiding place – no sense in listening more if she does not have a dictionary at hand – Sabela decides that she must ask her father about it. But that can wait. More importantly, she must speak with that strange man. Maybe he is Woedica’s priest, maybe he can give her some guidance, or a blessing, at least? Maybe he will be able to explain her dreams, and that deep sense of uneasiness that has been rattling in her heart and mind for weeks, different than the usual ‘ah what a lovely day to uncover and plot more intrigues’ mood that most nobles here wake up in?

On her tiptoes, she runs to the library, repeating a few more words in her thoughts, determined to check them and learn a little bit more before she forgets. She reaches the door when her mother’s voice stops her in her track.

“Sabela!”

Quietly, she opens the door and steps inside, then peeks out, as if she was just leaving the room.

“Sabela!” her mother calls again, loud enough for her father and his guest to hear. Ah, so it is dinner time.

She waits for a moment before answering. “In the library, Mama!” she replies, in a slightly breathless voice, as if she has just run to the door. “Just a moment!”

Hurriedly, she goes inside, snatches a Hylspeak dictionary and walks out, clutching it to her chest with both hands.

“Sabela! Haven’t you heard your mother?” her father reprimands as soon as she closes the door behind her. “You will read later,” he adds, in a stern tone. But his brow is not furrowed, which means she has nothing to worry about yet.

“Yes, Papa,” she answers, obediently turning towards the stairway, holding the book more tightly.

He is standing at the threshold of his office, one hand on a door handle. Another clue. So the business is important enough that he will be dining with his guest there.

“I see you are bringing up a little scholar,” speaks a deep voice – in perfect Aedyran – as the said guest appears behind her father.

Sabela cannot really see his face, hidden in shadow, but notices his dark robes and dark hair. It seems soft.

“Not so little!” she replies in the same language, then turns away quickly, feeling her cheeks flush. She runs down the stairs, light on her feet; she wants to flee, and this way she will easily explain her blush.

For some reason, she thought all priests of Woedica should be old – probably because most of the more important officials and clergy she has ever seen are. But the stranger is younger, and for some reason she does not want him to think of her as _little_ or _a child_. Woedica’s burned throne; she is twenty-seven, almost an adult!

Well, not like it really matters, because he will leave in the evening, and she will not see him again. She must have read or heard one story or ballad about handsome, dark-haired strangers too many, that is all.

“Sabela, how many times do I need to tell you that ladies don’t run!” her mother sighs in exasperation when she enters the dining room.

“I’m a scholar,” Sabela answers merrily, picking a random chair near the middle of the table. “And, apparently, still a child,” she adds with a pout.

If her brothers were home, they would play their usual game of switching places at every meal, so that when Papa, who often came down to eat with his nose buried in another legal contract, talked to one of them, he would often find himself addressing the wrong child. Which was a never-ending source of laughter for them all. But now, when two of her brothers are studying philosophy in far Ixamitl, and another is away tending to the family business, Sabela finds the game is no longer as satisfying.

“You’re not a child, _young lady_ ,” Mama scolds with an exaggeratedly stern expression, rising her eyes to heaven – or, in this case, to the ceiling. “Behave. Papa is having a guest.”

Sabela wants to say she does not care, but there are some limits even an irritated young _woman_ should not cross, because it is very unbecoming. So she just shrugs – the slightest move of her shoulders, easy to dismiss, but very offensive in the most beautiful unassuming way if someone was paying attention.

Her mother shakes her head, serious now. “Sabela. Behave. I mean it.” She briefly puts her hand on Sabela’s arm. “It’s Papa’s _good_ friend,” she says quietly. “Respect that, at least.”

Good friend, in Vailian, can mean a couple of things. A trustworthy business companion. A political ally. Your enemy’s enemy. Or someone you owed a life-debt, someone who saved you, someone who was not a friend you laughed and drank wine with, but in some ways much more important. Good friend could also mean all of those.

Sabela, being her father’s daughter, knows better than to ask. So during the entire dinner, she is a perfect picture of a young lady, sitting straight, eating gracefully, and talking to her mother over the dessert. And all the time, she is constantly glancing at the contents of the open book lying on the table near her plate. But that is permitted; maybe many of her peers would not get away with this, but she can bend the etiquette a little if it means she is learning. If there is one thing as important to her parents as grooming her into a well-behaved lady who will be able to swim the perilous oceans of local politics and high society safely while also pretending she is not a shark at all, it is encouraging her to be a scholar.

The dictionary is not much of a help. She is not able to find most words, either because the book is too small, or because the words are from a specific area, probably concerning ships and cargo.

But there is one word she manages to find. _Key_.

* * *

 

The stranger stays over for supper, for which both he and Papa leave the office and go down to the dining room.

“This is _Maestre_ Erland,” her father announces in Aedyran. That title can mean a lot of things, too, depending on how it is said – and her father speaks it with deep respect, and also as if it was a most natural thing in the world.

It might be, but his name is not. Sabela has an ear for melody and rhythm, can hear music in everything, and this name does not harmonize with its bearer. It does not have to be false; sometimes people do get names that ill-fit them… But it would be more exciting if it was, so she decides it is.

Though, upon closer inspection, the stranger is very disappointing. True, he is young – a few years older than her eldest brother, at most – but he is not handsome – not even close – and he has a beard, which Sabela finds nothing short of repulsive. Only his eyes are acceptable; dark green, similar to adra in shade and depth. But overall, she just expected more and is very dissatisfied that fate let her down in such a way.

“May this house never be forgotten, forever in the eternal memory of the Queen and in her favour,” the stranger greets. An ancient blessing, favoured by old noble houses across the old empires of Eora. It sounds strange, spoken in Aedyran instead of Vailian, but it is nothing extraordinary, given the somewhat formal occasion.

“May the Queen favour you as well,” Mama replies, mirroring the measured but respectful bow of the man’s head.

Sabela refuses to use his supposed name, even in her thoughts. It _does not fit_. His title, though… _Maestre_. She repeats the word slowly in her mind. Yes, _this_ fits. She might not be a cipher, but she will not be fooled so easily.

But, after all, sometimes that is the trick. Something everyone – almost everyone – would consider too simple. She has used similar tactics a few times, and it has always worked flawlessly.

Suppressing the urge to pout or scowl – oh, what a disappointing evening! – she focuses on the food, trying not to listen to her parents and the strange man talking local politics. She knows all about it, because that is the sensible thing to do, but finds it incredibly boring. Besides, what can be exciting about something she is so familiar with?

Hoping her parents are sufficiently distracted, she reaches out to a nearby chair, takes the dictionary and puts in on the table, trying to conceal it behind her plates and glass.

“Sabela,” her mother says quietly, a note of warning in her voice. “Put it away and apologize.”

She does not jump in place, but when she lifts her head, startled, the move is too abrupt for a _lady_.

“I…” she meets the stranger’s eyes, notices the brief spark of curiosity as he glances towards the book, and breaks off. Why should she apologize? Reading at the table has always been allowed, and it is not like she pushed that book into his plate or anything…

“It’s all right.” The man raises both hands in a placating gesture. “Seeing a scholar at work can hardly be offensive, can it?” he asks with a small smile.

“Very well,” her mother agrees.

Sabela nods, both a little grateful to the man and irritated that she needed his intercession at all, and opens the dictionary…

“Does she always read during meals?” the stranger asks her parents in a hushed voice.

It feels as if someone threw a spark on a fistful of Rauatai gunpowder, except in her mind.

“ _She_ is sitting close enough to hear everything,” Sabela says clearly, tilting her head up slowly to give the man a defiant look. “ _Maestre_ ,” she adds, after a pause; ah, she has always loved the art of tactful insults.

For a heartbeat, her father seems worried. But the stranger just meets her gaze calmly, searching her eyes, and then laughs quietly.

Sabela wants to punch fate in the face with an invocation, or maybe even her lute, because his laughter is _nice_. But she quickly remembers she was going to be offended.

“I apologize, young lady.” He bows to her, his face completely serious, but there are still traces of amusement in his eyes. “I merely didn’t want to disturb your research.”

Now she is both satisfied, because he apologized first, and devastated, because it sounded sincere, which means he is better at this than her, and that is another affront. A moment later, she realizes something – just before her parents begin glancing at her meaningfully.

“I am sorry, _Maestre_.” Yes, it fits; she knows once she speaks it aloud. “I know there was no ill intent behind your words.”

“Let’s just forget about it,” he suggests; a most generous offer, from a Woedican, and she is certain he is one. “But you shouldn’t call me that. It’s…”

“Grammatically correct, in some older dialects,” she interrupts, giving him her most polite, charming smile. Older dialects, like Hylspeak. Let him wonder.

“Ah, I see you are a scholar of many talents…” He smiles back, mirroring her expression. “Have you ever considered a career in politics?”

Her parents, the stranger, and eventually even Sabela herself burst into laughter. She is very proud, but also confident enough to recognize when she is defeated. And that, she has to admit, was a very graceful killing blow.

“No, but perhaps I should,” she replies, but there is no sting to it. Then she nods and turns most of her attention back to the book.

“She would be brilliant,” the man says, in that hushed tone again.

“She might become an ambassador, in time,” Papa answers. “Right now, she seems just as happy in the library as at court, so we just let her enjoy both.”

Satisfied to hear only compliments, Sabela stops listening and concentrates on finding the page where she finished her earlier research. When she finds it, for a while she just keeps staring at the word. _Key_.

What does this have to do with Woedica? Does it have anything to do with the fact he did not want her to call him just by his Vailian title, which… Without his name, instead of the customary polite phrase that can mean anything from an accomplished scholar or a respected official or judge, to a master artisan or a wealthy tradesman, the word has more religious connotations. That is a way to address a high priestess or priest, perhaps the head of a monastery or other religious order… Oh. Oh!

Sabela keeps searching her memory frantically, looking for clues. There is a… a legend or just a rumour, maybe a mention at a margin of a scroll; she knows she has seen it somewhere, but it eludes her grasp.

She gives up and decides to try logic. Something in connection to The Exiled Queen, probably a religious order. Either Woedica’s clergy, or Steel Garrote. There is also that elite group of priestesses – a sect, some call it – which is responsible for at least some sightings of the Strangler, but that can be ruled out. Probably not a paladin either, because he does not look strong enough to be able to wear a full plate armour.

Sabela freezes, the little hair at the back of her neck standing on end as she feels someone’s intent gaze on her. Has she been muttering? But when she cautiously glances up, the stranger is talking animatedly with her parents, none of them looking at her at all.

Relieved, but still uneasy, she lowers her gaze towards the book.

So, is he Woedica’s priest? That is not very surprising; she has been suspecting something that since she eavesdropped on his talk with Papa.

 _Queen_. _Key_. Suddenly mosaic pieces fall into place and she recalls a picture: a hand-drawn depiction of Woedica, wearing a key-shaped medallion. She remembers because she thought it was pretty, and also very vaguely familiar, for some reason.

Straining her memory, she puts her finger on the table and starts slowly drawing the shape. A circle, as if she was lost in thoughts and just tracing random patterns on the wood. Then a few lines; little, inconspicuous brushes. Just before drawing the last line, she glances up, holding her breath.

The stranger is looking straight at her. His gaze does not stray towards her hand, but somehow she is certain that he _knows_.

She runs the meaning of that Vailian title in her head again. Is he… Can it… She blinks, not believing her own conclusions. Can it be? Is he Woedica’s _high priest_? The thought makes her head spin.

Quietly, she closes the book and gets up. “Please excuse me, I… I’m feeling _unwell_.” She nods at her parents – catches the worried look on Papa’s face just before Mama reaches across the table to touch his hand and assure him that everything is fine.

“Go get some rest, darling. Do you want some hot cocoa later?” Her mother asks, because that is her favourite drink whenever she really does feel unwell.

“Yes, thank you.” Sabela blows her a kiss, then turns to the stranger. “Goodnight,” she says, with a small and very charming curtsy.

“Sleep well, young lady,” he replies with an inscrutable smile. His eyes, when she steals one last glance at his face, are two mirrors.

Sabela walks out of the room, perplexed, a little frightened, and very excited. After all, she is on the verge of solving a great mystery.

* * *

 

She is watching him, hidden behind the curtain of rambling roses. In any other circumstances, this would be not only silly, but also dangerous. But she knows Papa would have never allowed this man to eat with them – to see her or her brothers at all, were they home – if he did not trust him with his life. So, at worst, this is silly and she will embarrass herself.

Which is possible, Sabela concludes, watching the priest say farewell to her parents. She is very conflicted right now; he is definitely not handsome, but a mysterious dark-haired stranger is a first-rate ballad material. And if he is Woedica’s high priest… Well, her teacher always reminds her that she will not get far if she will never aim high. She is a reasonable girl; she could make some sacrifices to satisfy her ambition. Besides, she knows most of the noble boys her age – at least those who are worth knowing for a lady of her station – and they are either boring or more interested in their research…

But those are silly musings for later. Right now, she has more important things to discuss. The picture from that book. That symbol of a key. Her nightmares.

The stranger stops by the fountain and sits on the stone casing. He puts his hand into the water and splashes a few drops onto his face. “I know you’re there, _vulpinet_ ,” he says quietly in Aedyran, the single word he adds in Vailian intoned perfectly; by now, she is certain he is fluent in Vailian as well. Usually, the word is used as a term of endearment, but his tone implies he means it more as a jest and a recognition of how clever she is.

Sabela steps out of the roses, trying not to stomp on other flowers on the way. Which looks anything but graceful, she is certain. Good, because it helps her not to blush when he turns his head towards her; still not handsome, but in the dim light of magical lanterns, his eyes look… Well, eyes might be his one redeeming feature, she decides.

“Your parents would not be happy to find you here,” he says, getting up. There is a slight frown on his face; he disapproves of her little escapade.

“I know.” She shakes her head. “But…”

“But you have questions.” He sighs, then starts walking down the alley slowly, making sure they are visible from the windows if anyone looked. “How much have you heard of our talk in your father’s office?”

That stuns her. “You… knew I was there?”

“Even if I didn’t, your reaction is pretty telling, isn’t it?” he asks with a brief smile.

Sabela pouts. “That’s cheating.”

He starts walking again, waving at her to move. “That’s rich, coming from a Vailian noble.”

How sad that she has no time to take offence… But she does not let herself. There will be time to sulk later.

“Just a part of it,” she admits. “I don’t know Hylspeak, so I left. Only caught a few words. Book. Adra.” She looks at him. “Queen,” she adds slowly. “Key.”

“Ah. That’s why you’ve been reading a dictionary.” He nods. “Smart girl.”

She is not sure whether to be glad of his praise or irritated at being called girl this way, as if she was still a child, when she is a young woman. But, being a young woman, she must be above such petty insults.

“That key you drew on the table… Where had you seen it?” He motions towards the book. “Here?”

“Took me a while to figure it out.” She opens the book; the drawing of Woedica stares back at them from the parchment. “You’re her priest, aren’t you?” she inquires, glancing at him.

He is watching the drawing thoughtfully. Then he lifts a hand and brushes his fingertips across the goddess’ face gently, in a way that makes Sabela’s future silly dreams both much more vivid and _very_ jealous.

“Yes,” he answers finally; it is more a breath than a word. “Yes, I am.”

“This key…” She pushes his hand aside, not without a bit of probably very foolish satisfaction, and points at the medallion. “What does it mean?”

When he turns to her, his face is calm, but something in his eyes is terrifying. “Better forget that you asked,” he advises in a soft voice that sends shivers down her spine.

“You don’t understand!” It is a warm, peaceful evening, but she cannot stop trembling, and she is sure that in a moment her teeth will start chattering. “I… I must know! This must be the key to…” In other situation, she would be very proud of her clever pun. “I’ve been having these dreams and… I don’t remember any details when I wake up, but it’s important… I know it is!” She shakes her head. “It’s…”

He stops. But he does not seem alarmed, just very focused. “Tell me.”

“I don’t remember!” Sabela cries out, running out patience. When he does not react to her outburst, she takes a few breaths, trying to get a grip on herself. “It’s…” She closes her eyes. “It’s dark. I think I’m underground. I have a lamp and I walk on and I’m not afraid. I’m a scholar, those are not the first ruins in my life.” She looks at him, reaches out for his hand or sleeve as the familiar dread washes over her, but stops herself mid-motion. “This place is safe. But I know something is wrong and I don’t know what. I need to do something but I don’t know what.” She damns propriety and rules and grabs his hand in her clammy palms. “In those dreams, I never want to leave. I know I have to, but I don’t want to. Something… As long as I stay there, time does not flow and it will not come to be. I know time doesn’t work that way, but I don’t want to…” She blinks, perplexed. “You… you made me remember?” She lets go of his hand as if it was as poisonous as Berath’s bell. “How?”

He gives her a serious look, as if he considered her an adult for a moment, or at least as if he assumed she understood everything. “I did warn your father. Whether he will heed my words or not is his choice.”

“What?” She stares at him blankly, in shock, and then sudden fury overtakes her. “If you threatened my father – my family – I swear…”

He grasps her wrists when she tries to hit him. “Lesson one, young lady; think before you act. Lesson two…” He gives her a stern look when she attempts to snatch her hands away. “You don’t need your hands to use your voice.”

“That’s still lesson one,” she mutters through gritted teeth, determined not to show that he really managed to scare her without even trying.

“See? Now you’re thinking.” He lets go, not reacting when she makes a show of rubbing her wrists; they both know he did not hurt her. “One more thing,” he adds quietly, leaning in just an inch or two. “There are people who need neither hands nor mouth. Remember that.”

She takes a cautious step back, not sure whether to attack or flee or call for help.

The stranger sighs, and suddenly he is not scary at all. He just looks tired, as if after a long journey – well, Aedyr is a long way from Old Vailia.

“I didn’t threaten your father,” he says quietly. “I warned him, as a… brother in faith.”

“About what?”

“If he doesn’t tell you, it’s not my place to do so. And you might be safer for not knowing.”

She hugs herself against the sudden chill, but knows it is not physical. “What am I to do?”

“You should have thought about that before you sought me out.”

Sabela recoils as if he had just slapped her. But she cannot even muster a reply, because he is right; she wanted to know, and now she does. And wishes she did not.

“Can’t you take it away?” she asks miserably, every ounce as childish as he initially thought she was. “If memory is Woedica’s domain, can’t she make someone forget?”

“She might.” His face is indifferent, but there is something a little softer in his eyes. Pity? Compassion? “But I cannot.”

Which might mean that he is not able to… or that he is just forbidden to do so.

“Don’t,” he warns gently.

Sabela stares at him, unsure what to do. She does not want to leave. Maybe if she stays, this night will never end. And whatever is coming will never happen.

But the world does not work that way. Only stories.

The stranger – more strange the more she learns about him – is watching her closely. It is the same eerie sensation like during supper, when he was not looking, and it should probably scare her more, but it does not. He cannot read everything, she thinks defiantly, glaring at him.

“No, I can’t,” he replies to her thought. “I know enough to not want to.” He lifts his hands, reaching out towards her. “Come here,” he says softly.

Against her better judgement, she does. His hands cradle her face for a moment, and then he draws the sign of Woedica’s crown across her forehead, muttering under his breath. It must be a blessing, because she can feel the serenity of divine magic settling over her like a warm cloak. But she does not understand the words.

“What language is this?” she asks, suddenly dizzy.

“The language of the gods,” he answers in a whisper, so quietly she is not sure it was real.

“Who are you?”

His eyes are two adra veins reaching into the soul of the world. “You already know that.”

Her head is spinning. “You said you can’t!” she accuses, guessing what he is doing and trying to pull away when she feels his fingers at her temples reaching _into her mind_.

" _That_ was a lesson, and a warning. Whether you will heed it or not depends on you.” He lets her go. “This is for your safety. Consider it a small blessing granted by the Queen to your father. A reward for his faithful service.”

“Give it to him instead, you bastard!”

Again, he catches her hand before it connects with his cheek. “Silly girl,” he says, looking down at her. “Your father would give that blessing to you, did he have a choice in the matter. Could you live with that? Make peace with that?”

She stares at him, wide-eyed, terrified of his words. Of what her reply would be.

“As soon as I leave, you will forget. This is Woedica’s mercy; you will not remember. You will never have to answer those questions.”

“To the Beyond with questions!” she snaps, but it is more despair than determination and she is aware he must know it. “My father…”

“Your father knew what he was doing, when he decided to serve the Queen. Follow his example. Think before you act.” He lets go of her hand and turns away.

“I’m sorry.” She is sobbing quietly, confused and devastated and furious at him for everything he said. Furious at herself for having asked. “I’m sorry!” If he really is Woedica’s high priest, and she insulted him and tried to hit him _twice_ , that is a disrespect – more than that, a _sin_ – she should beg forgiveness for. “ _Sientere_! Please…”

“Don’t apologize; learn.” He looks at her over his shoulder. “I did what I could, child.”

“Not all that is in your might!”

“All I _could_. You will find, later in life, that it is not always the same.” Mercifully, he does not tell her to ask whether she thinks Woedica would consider her father worthy. “Stay safe. _Corès_.”

Sabela wants to spit on the ground where he stood when he turns and walks away. But she does not dare to. Not until he is but a shape at the garden gate, barely visible in the shadows…

She blinks, then wipes her wet eyes and cheeks. Uh, tears are so unbecoming… She has been thinking of her nightmares too much. But he blessed her; Woedica blessed her, through his words and hands. No nightmares could get through such a shield, could they?

There is a book on the ground; she must have dropped it at some point, maybe talking too animatedly. She picks it up, and hurries after him.

“ _Maestre!_ ” she calls. “You left the book!”

He stops, and she runs up to him.

“Here,” she says with a gracious smile. She is going to miss the odd pictures, scribbled here and there under the text, but if Papa agreed to lend this tome to his acquaintance, she is going to be perfectly polite about saying goodbye to it.

Papa. Oh. She has almost forgotten… Sabela bites her lip, to stop it from quivering. She is a lady. She is not going to cry. She is not going to.

The priest watches her closely; she feels uncomfortable under his scrutiny, but oddly she does not want him to stop. Somehow, his presence means safety. Not that he is not a dangerous man; simply that he could protect her from what is coming. But he will not.

“If… If…” she cannot bring herself to say it. Her father is cautious, reasonable. They are going to be fine. It would not be the first attempt on their lives. Nothing serious; just another day in Old Vailia.

“Every door can be opened if you have a proper key,” he answers her unspoken question nonetheless. Then he reaches out and ruffles her hair. “Be careful, _vulpinet_.”

“I will.”

The corners of his lips curl up; a smile even Wael would envy. “I know.”

She watches as he walks away and disappears into the night. One day, she will… Oh! The book! She let him take the book… No, no matter. She is already on her way to becoming a chanter. And once she learns all the stories, she will find him.

He tricked her into giving him the book. What else did he… No, she firmly tells herself. _No_. For now, she already knows more than she wanted, and there are more pressing matters.

Sabela turns and walks towards the house in quick, decisive steps. It is high time Papa answered a few questions.


End file.
